


Incinerate

by Samsam4short



Series: Eternal Flame [4]
Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, F/M, Gen, Kingdom Hearts III Spoilers, Kingdom Hearts χ Speculation, Kingdom Hearts χ Spoilers, Light and Darkness, Morally Ambiguous Character, Nightmares, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rebirth, almost everyone remembers everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-01-21 07:19:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21295661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Samsam4short/pseuds/Samsam4short
Summary: Light tastes like a meal after lifetimes of starvation, like the very first breath. Light is clean and exhilarating and leaves him dizzy and hungry. He wants more.((Sequel to 'From The Ashes' and contains spoilers for such. Updates Sundays))
Series: Eternal Flame [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1285385
Comments: 3
Kudos: 25





	1. Demyx

**Author's Note:**

> Hey pals, it's good to see ya'll again! Strap on in, let's take a ride!

"What is right is often forgotten by what is convenient "  
-Bodie Thoene

Demyx.

The war is over and peace rests upon him, the gentlest of harmonies in all of the realms. Legs curled like a pretzel, hunched over his sitar, he licks his lips.

A D Sharp there, an F. 

The acoustics in Radiant Garden are much nicer than they were in The World That Never was. Everything there sounded like it was being played in a minor chord, which isn’t inherently bad, but does get tedious quickly. That’s the nice thing about music, it offers a safe, contained sort of variety, variety that doesn’t require standing or like, actually exerting effort. 

Demyx really is over exerting effort.

Pushing stray tendrils of bangs out of his face, Demyx huffs. He’s over minor chords, but this song sounds better in G minor. 

“So why do I do things I don’t really--” Nope. That needs tweaking. “So why do I say things I don’t really mean, really mean.” Much better, he decides, quickly scribbling down the alterations to his lyrics on the tiny notebook he has laid out in front of him. Try as he may, he’s never certain about a song until he plays it. He can arrange the chords in his head, tap out a rhythm with the back of a pencil all he wants, he’s not even the best singer, but at the edge of jagged, picturesque cliffs, his voice doesn’t sound half bad. Things start to come together.

Yeah, peace suits him just fine.

He feels Xehanort die. Literally feels it one morning and nearly chokes, swearing there is a fistfull of daggers in his abdomen. He wakes in the castle, clutches the blankets in his makeshift bed and tries to swallow the pain, swallow it and ignore it. It only lasts a few seconds, but it is excruciating and by time the ache has subsided, he is burdened with a lovely knowledge. The darkness is gone. Blackness doesn’t flow fresh through him, instead, there is a stagnant sort of remainder. His own darkness, or rather what Xehanort inserted into him isn’t gone completely but, he’s been cut off. There’s no more fresh supply on its way.

Demyx wakes up and feels lighter than ever. Music seems to course through his veins. He wakes up and takes his sitar out and laughs with Ienzo and waits for Rueki to come back with grand tales of how she pummeled Larxene into the ground. The days tick by in the sunlight, lazy and leisurely. Demyx knows nothing of the science of hearts and is under no obligation to research, so he writes, strums his music and settles into the placid flow of this glittering world. Ienzo assures him it has nothing on the former splendor of Radiant Garden, but the fragmentary portion Demyx remembers of his life has been filled with darkness and abuse and this place with its brick pavement and quiet laughter is beyond good enough.

That alone should have been an indicator that life would not last like this.

“If you wanna take it to an even higher level…” No, this one should be different, a bridge and not just another verse, something special, unique, all his own with no guidance. “If you wanna take it to an even higher level.” Yeah, like that, a little more staggered. 

He’s a more legato kind of guy himself, but hey, this works. Even the most perfect storm is incomplete without the random surges of thunder and lightning that chase unevenly after each other. 

“I want you for a lifetime--”

“Oh damn, what an offer, man.” 

Demyx’s gloved hands cease, he doesn’t look up from the chords of his sitar, not to recognize that voice.

He doesn’t know why, he has no reason to believe otherwise, after all, Xigbar was one of the original six, this is his home, after being recompleted, why would he not return here? Still, this reappearance is--

It’s a colossal pain in the ass. 

Xigbar’s not a slave driver, not by any standard of the word, and the almost surfer dude vibe that the Freeshooter radiates is something Demyx thinks might be a nice harmony in the melody of his life, but there is too much association. Too many things to discuss that the Melodious Nocturne would be content to forget. Beyond content.

“Uh, hey. Sorry, didn’t realize anyone was listening.” Demyx’s eyes--still golden-- flick up to where Xigbar stands, leaning against a formation of rocks, arms crossed to his chest, looking no worse for the wear. Which, like, hey, good for him. “Trying to just crank this tune out.”

“I can tell, sounds good. This really what you’re doing with your time? Really what betraying Xehanort was worth?” Xigbar tilts his head to the side, thin stream of ponytail splaying against the rocks. Demyx’s face twists. His body still retains Nobody strength, he would more than dominate a recompleted Xigbar if it came down to a physical battle, if that’s what this is. But a confrontation is so not what he was in the mood for today. Reiterating, a colossal pain in the ass.

“Come on, do we have to do this?” Demyx sighs. “I mean, I was just sticking with the side that didn’t get me into trouble. I mean, if Xehanort lost to the Lights, I was definitely getting my ass handed to me. Sora already did that to me once, I wasn’t really into reliving that, you know?”

“Sure.” Xigbar cackles, an unwanted riff. Demyx shifts, face crinkling, hands tightening around the neck of his sitar. “Hey, hey, we’re not gonna fight. I mean unless you’re really feeling it?”

“Not even a little.” Demyx all but sighs. Xigbar laughs a little louder, and while the sound is not outwardly threatening it does cause a sense of unease to flow through Demyx, the way darkness once did. Fresh, present. “What are you here for, then?” Not that Demyx is the interrogating type, but this feels off, and the sooner he is rid of this unwanted presence, the water elemental will undoubtedly find himself floating into ease.

“What, you not having some fun rehashing? Hanging out?” Xigbar leers, leaning forward just a bit, though his legs stay stationary.

“Hey, I’m just trying to play some music, can’t do that with an audience until I’m rehearsed.” No, this isn’t fun, no this isn’t hanging out. 

“Oooh, that was kind of tactful, look at you.” With the push of his hips, Xigbar hoists himself away from the rocks and takes steps that again, aren’t outright predatory, but unsettling, toward him. At this, Demyx climbs to his feet, sitar at hand. Fuck, sitting is nice. He always forgets just how nice until he is standing. 

“Full disclosure, I’m getting some serious big bad wolf vibes.” Demyx laughs, a nervous and very nasal sound, a far cry from his genuine laugh. Xigbar wheezes this time, doubling over, clutching his stomach as he verges on hysterics.

“And that’s why you’ve always been on my list. Perceptive from the get go.” Xigbar grins. There’s something in the canine glint of his teeth that sets every nerve in Demyx’s body alight, screaming danger. He could teleport away, but for as quick as he is, he knows Xigbar is quicker. So instead, the gears in his head start shifting, working in hard beats instead of soft rhythms as he calculates. 

“The get go?” Keep Xigbar talking, there’s a weakness if he ever did see one. Let Xigbar prattle, and if Demyx is patient enough, he can keep shifting until he see his opening and can dip out while Xigbar is unprepared. 

“Oh, that mysterious past of yours that I’m sure you’ve been wondering about? You don’t think there’s anyone at all who might know a little something about it?” Xigbar quirks his visible eyebrow.

“I don’t wonder about it at all.” Demyx says, evenly, perfectly smooth water. How Xigbar knows he’s missing memories is not his primary concern, and he would just as easily call ignorance bliss if it meant ridding himself of II. 

“Not even a little?” Xigbar takes another step, so Demyx steps back, in the flow.

“As a rule, I don’t think twice.” Demyx shrugs, trying to seem offhanded, trying to convince Xigbar that his goofy mask is still perfectly intact. 

“Huh.” Is all Xigbar has to offer. “Cool, I can work with that.”

“Work with what?” Keep him talking. 

“Well, I had a sweet little offer for you, but if you don’t want your memories…” He takes a step forward, Demyx takes a step back. “What about a Keyblade?”

“Nah.” Demyx shrugs.

“Power?” Xigbar asks, and Demyx swears, it’s like the older man doesn’t even know him.

“I’m good.” Demyx waves one hand while the other tightens around the neck of his sitar.

“What about a nice cushy promise than you won’t end up killed?”

Oh, now there’s something. This time, when Xigbar takes a step forward, Demyx doesn’t move back. 

“Huh?”

“The short of it is that the world is still too dark, gotta gather some more light. Things might get hairy.” Xigbar explains.

“Well, Xehanort’s side was supposed to be unbeatable.” Demyx says. “Same with Xemnas.” 

“This isn’t about little men and their predestined plans.” Abruptly, Xigbar goes harsh, very unlike the lackadaisical persona that Demyx is used to. Not that Demyx has room to talk, not with the plots he’s concocting in his own mind--very Axel, very Marluxia. Quickly, Xigbar adjusts the set in his brow, softens his features. This is infinitely more big bad wolf than if he would’ve just snapped again, a possible side effect of decades spent under a crazy man’s control. “Sorry, but, hey this is bigger. This isn’t some lunatic’s plan.”

“So what is it then?” Demyx drawls, finally taking another step back, returning to the dance. Xigbar makes a face as he visibly struggles to find the words, and that’s at least something. He’s not Marluxia, he’s not nearly as eloquent, so despite the blatant fact that Xigbar is at least half full of shit, he’s not great at disguising it.

“Something beyond mortality.” Xigbar finally decides. Demyx makes a soft, noncommittal noise, because honestly, Rueki must’ve clocked the Freeshooter something fierce. He’s fucking delirious. 

“Well, you know, I’m working with a King right now, so I’m not really hurting.” Demyx explains.

“What’s a king to a god?” Xigbar asks. Demyx swallows, a dry, lump of a feeling.

“I don’t have a choice.” That much is apparent, whatever more Xigbar has planned, whatever his loopy mind is deciding, he has made the choice for Demyx.

“I mean, if you wanna use those words, sure. None of you do. You can play hard to get if you want, just figured you’d think that sounded like a pain. Thought I’d let you do it the easy way.” He hates Xigbar, hates how right he is, hates that he does want to play this easy.

After all, it’s only his life, is it really worth the effort when he may wake up in another decade and not recall any of it? Wouldn’t it be better to do it without telltale scars and battle wounds as reminders on his skin?

A rest, a beat. Pause.

“Um, okay, fine, what’s this going to take?” Demyx chokes out. Xigbar’s smile twists. No longer is there even the faintest hint of a veil to his threat.

“Well you see, the thing is, you’ve still got traces of Xehanort in you. Can’t have that.” Xigbar takes a step forward, and despite every bit of protest within him, Demyx remains stationary. 

“Those will go away.” He’s not sure of it, but Demyx still spits the words out anyway.

“Mmm, this’ll be easier.” Xigbar smacks a palm to Demyx’s chest, a white, hot light glows and--

And this is worlds worse than the feeling of being gutted, this is worse than death, this is--

Over. As quickly as it starts, it is over.

He wakes up in an elegant, white bed, not unlike the one he slept in, in the World That Never Was, but this time, he wakes up, feeling bright and vibrant. He wakes up with the same memories as before, the same strange start at his life as a Nobody and--

He knows his name is Emyd. 

And Emyd needs not burden himself with any more concerns of the past.


	2. Lauriam

“We are rarely proud when we are alone."  
-Voltaire

Lauriam.

He is seven and burdened with the knowledge that he is brighter than most. Brighter, and he shines enough to lure out even sunflowers.

Lauriam has never not been magnetic. Even in the very early days, he finds it so easy to say big words and entice would be friends. Adolescence approaches and he discovers just how effortless it is to bat eyes at a boy or girl and send them swooning. A Keyblade manifests, and while some of his friends stutter and stumble through their ability to conjure the weapon, Lauriam has no such restriction. Lux almost seems to gather at the tip of his blade, as though the force of light itself is at his beck and call.

Charmed Lauriam and his wonderful sister Strelitzia lived serenely for the rest of their days, and it all should have ended like this.

But every way he turns fate over in his mind, all roads lead to the same destination. His sister is gone, his sister is dead. She’s not coming home this time, he tells himself. Tells himself until the words bleed together and wonderland no longer is rich in color and fascination. The garden no longer blooms without the sun to light it, but weeds persist, even in the darkest conditions. 

He’s too much of a narcissist to commit sucidie, of course he won’t admit those words to himself. Instead, he tells himself that he’s strong, that his sister would want him to carry on and live in her honor. And those things are true, of course they’re true. But--

But his mind flutters back to seven. Seven and standing beside his five year old sister, who tugs at the sleeve of his shirt and asks him if they can get ice cream when all of this is done. He tells her of course, but also tells her to be quiet, because he waits for this. Every single year, he anticipates this.

The crowning of a new master.

Annually, Daybreak Town holds a festival, ‘The Chiming of the Bells’, to celebrate the great and powerful Master of Masters, a man whose heart was so pure of light that the first Keyblade was spawned, and since then, he has kept Daybreak Town safe and secure. Every year, on this very same day, a new apprentice is crowned. Lauriam recalls Master Ira and Master Aced being at the Master of Master’s side, always. He recalls looking to the two--mere adolescents at the time-- with the utmost admiration, squeezing his little sister’s hand and assuring her that one day, he will be on that stage, and Master Lauriam will wear a grand mask, a peacock perhaps. Stelitzia smiles and agrees, probably because she wants ice cream, maybe just because she’s good and whole and loves her brother dearly. And Lauriam, he dreams. He dreams this year, when a girl is crowned--Master Invi. He dreams when Master Gula is crowned, he dreams when Master Ava is crowned, and dreams when Master Luxu is crowned.

No one ever tells him the cost of being a Master, because bathed in such glorious light, no one knows. It’s easy to turn a blind eye when everything appears without blemish.

Lauriam is nineteen when he discovers that power is merely a cage and tastes nothing like freedom.

Trapped in a data prison, he is all limitations, scrambling through nothings, through remnants, trusting only Elrena. Most people aren’t happy, ‘most people are really just stupid and his fellow Union Leaders are no exception, for the most part. No one is capable of unlocking them from this cell, even as reality glitches and crumbles, leaving pain and truth in their wake.

His sister was searching for someone, she was on a mission to save someone else when she was slain. And Lauriam will know no justice until that person meets the same end his sister did. For surely they are they key to her demise. Strelitzia was kind, but in that kindness was weakness and he still doesn’t know how to separate the two.

So kindness is cast away and a new goal settles in. It rests upon him, a cloak, a crown, a mantle for trophies that mean nothing. He will not sigh contentedly for fools gold. Not this time. For as long as he knows equals, he will never claim meaningful victory. Cheap rewards are unimportant. What is, is success, is elation,

Superiority.

It isn’t until Lauriam is a man named Marluxia that he discovers his own mortality.

Discovers it and drowns in it.

He doesn’t realize the importance of bone tight fists gripping Keyblades, swearing against injustice. He doesn’t find any significance when dirty blonde hair and sea green eyes sit in the corner of his peripheral vision, merely moments before his passing, each time. He doesn't recall the meaning, and that is the saddest part. 

Rebirth cradles him within its pedals, Lauriam is not so utterly naive to believe that he can rest eternally within its embrace, but oh how he longs to. He curls, sweet and saccharine, nuzzling what feels like satin. Blue eyes flutter open, long lashes dragging across high cheekbones as he recognizes the very distinct smell of lilacs. With wide open eyes, from where he rests in a four post bed, he has a floor to ceiling view of a garden. It is humble, but beyond workable and Lauriam thinks he could more than get used to whatever this rebirth entails. 

“You awake yet?” 

As Marluxia, a fair amount of bedmates were not uncommon, although the only reoccuring one remained Larxene. Most importantly, the only familiar one was Larxene. This voice is familiar, but not belonging to anyone he has ever had any burning desire to see in less clothing. With the deepest of inhales, he turns over in the --definitely satin-- sheets, pressing his other angular cheek against a delightfully soft pillow. 

“Tragically.” Lauriam sighs to the voice, to the hooded figure with folded arms, sitting in a plush chair at the edge of the lavish room. Whatever this world is, whatever this room is, seems catered exclusively to Lauriam himself, with only one mere blemish--the Freeshooter. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but hadn’t Sora struck me down, Xigbar, does this not mean I’m no longer indebted to Xehanort?” 

He can practically feel the smirk radiating off of the other man, but something else permeates his thoughts, something stronger.

Sea green eyes, dirty blonde hair.

No, reddish blonde hair. Her smile, the way her hand closed around his, the sound of her voice as she pleaded with him to take her for ice cream.

Xigbar cackles, marring the momentary fantasy as he takes down his hood, lips upturned into the jagged edge of his scar. 

“Hey, good memory. Most people get a little disoriented after rebirth, especially getting your own heart shoved back into you. No more Xehanort. Almost as good as winning the lottery, right?” Xigbar teases.

His own heart, no Xehanort, it’s not an unpleasant prospect but--

But agony, desperation, blame. Shame. Too many things push down on Lauriam as he thinks of secrets and laughter and the promise of joining the Dandelions, becoming Union Leaders together. She should have been there, his morning star.

His baby sister.

A heart cannot selectively numb, so he doesn’t just put his pain on permafrost, but his pleasure too.

His Strelitzia. 

“Delightful as your analogies are, I can assure you, I have questions. About our present surroundings specifically.” Lauriam says, looking to the white satin of the sheets as he bunches them between his fists. Oh, what ache, what a disgusting emotion. If he is reawakened, certainly Larxene will be too and undoubtedly, the sight of her atop him, his back brushing the satin of the sheets with her every furious, electric movement will burn away such an atrocity. 

“Right, right. So the short of it is that the Keyblade War happened, Xehanort was defeated, Kingdom Hearts got summoned, did a little work to purify the dark, but the Key Kids put a stop to that. We’re in a world called Scala ad Caelum, an old seat of power for Keybearers past, built upon the ruins of the very first home for Keybearers.” Xigbar explains.

The seeds have been planted and Lauriam needs not see the full bloom to understand the beauty of the tale Xigbar spins.

“Built upon the ruins of Daybreak Town then, I deduce?” Lauriam inclines an eyebrow. So Xigbar is ever the greedy fool and yearns for a Keyblade and a crew of his own? Boring, Lauriam thinks, and utterly unenticing. 

“Heh, cool. So all of those memories are sinking back in.” Xigbar grins, pushing himself up from his throne of a chair, though Lauriam doesn’t need to peacock in such a way to show dominance and doesn’t. For he is an expert in lying low, in staying polite, in waiting for these foolish men to play their foolish games while he plots silently. 

“You’re aware then, of my past as a Keybearer?” Lauriam murmurs, boredly, figuring just as much based on the fact that Xigbar was the one who found him and lured him into the Organization in the first place. 

Perhaps being smart counts for something.

“Let’s talk a little more about what you remember, Marly, it might help answer a few things.” Xigbar waves a hand. Lauriam’s eye roll is beyond lavish. 

“Lauriam, actually.” The pink haired man corrects, shifting only to stare up at the cathedral ceiling of the room, rather than at Xigbar, interested much more in the scenery around him than the rat of the man patrolling his bedside. “I remember it all, of course.” The screaming hole in his chest, the ghostly absence of his sister, the noise left behind in her wake. Her warmth, her light, it is too fresh, in full bloom and simultaneously decaying. And so his petals weather away, dust on the wind. 

“It all.” Xigbar drawls, suddenly sounding a little more certain, a little more in control. But this doesn’t stir Lauriam, no, the man is a fool, not so very different than Axel, who failed to eliminate him in the end, a man fixated on his own folly. And rather than the folly being affection, Xigbar lusts for power, that is obvious and ignorable. “The first Keyblade War, the Dandelions?”

“The Master of Masters, the Chirithies, Master Ava.” Lauriam exhales, quite uninterested in hearing someone like Xigbar, who likely merely read a ‘Keyblade History For Novices’ tomme, recant the past to him. 

“Master Luxu.” 

“Absolutely, a young boy concealed by a cloak.” It is as soon as the words are spoken that Lauriam realizes Xigbar’s words are a statement, not a question. “What fascination have you with the ancient masters?” Especially such an understated one, in fact, in the throes of the war, Master Luxu didn’t even have his own union. Surely there are more powerful, more important, well decorated Union Leaders? Master Ira, for starters. 

“You said you remember it all, just checking that you remember me.”

There is no calculation, no preparation that Lauriam is capable of creating at Xigbar’s words. But the deductions, they’re quick and Laruiam’s recovery is quicker. 

“Why then, did the great Master Luxu busy himself with such a small man as Xehanort?” Tact is everything. And Lauriam will imply it for days but never outright state that he is, was and always will be more deserving of such attention that Xehanort.

“Ha, that’s a fucking laundry list.” Xigbar grumbles, and in the stark lighting of the room, bitterness wins out across the grizzled man’s features for a moment, the type of disillusionment that Lauriam understands but has never seen cross the Freeshooter’s features. Still, just as quickly as it appears, it dissipates. “I spent millenia watching over the Master of Master’s Keyblade until it fell into the hands of someone who could enact the Keyblade War all over again.” 

“So you chased down a sword because the old Master told you to?” Lauriam taunts, because the idea of Xigbar as anything shy of utterly human is laughable. Xigbar, laid back, underdog Xigbar. Xigbar, who should never have been number II. 

“I got you all cozy here, made sure you got recompleted, got to this very point because the Master told me to. Congratulations, Marluxia, the Master of Masters wanted you alive.” Xigbar grins. No, perhaps, Luxu? Xigbar was barely more than an overgrown child, but Lauriam cannot deny, the prospect of the Master of Masters having interest in him is not unthinkable. Surely it makes more sense than an interest in Xehanort. Perhaps Xehanort was a means to an end, after all, Lauriam was selected, by the Keyblade, by Master Ava. Time and time again the power of his heart has reigned superior, so why should a superior being not recognize such a quality?

Why should he not finally have this moment, this ultimate seat of power, to avenge his sister?

For the first time in apparent millenia, Lauriam blooms. 

“And what interest could the Master of Master’s have in me?” Lauriam inquires, feigning humble, feigning modesty as every nerve ending inside of him comes alive.

He is a mere boy again, squeezing his sister’s hand, swearing to her that he will one day serve at the side of the Master of Masters.

Strelitzia would be so proud.

“Well, to answer that, you’ll have to strap in. It’s a hell of a story."


	3. Ludor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's a day early but you guys this chapter has been written for months and I'm so damn excited to finally release it. Also is it a Sam story without a surprise early update?

"Jealousy is the tie that binds, and binds, and binds.”  
-Helen Rowland

Ludor.

He sees sea green eyes. He sees strawberry blonde hair. He sees a full lipped smile and an extended pale hand.

But not toward him.

She reaches out to a boy with rosy pink hair and laughs, something delicate in her voice, twinkling like windchimes. 

He does not believe in love at first sight, such a myth feels like a gamble, even by his standards, but if there were such a thing, Ludor thinks this flower of a girl may have stolen his heart.

He remembers seeing her, shy and soft, so easily lost in a sea of others, and yet, simultaneously, so magnetic. He sees her casting aside darkness, fighting it with grace that no living creature should be capable of, he sees her collecting lux humbly, so powerful, so determined and so bashful. Her capabilities do not equal arrogance, and were he not so green, himself, he’d have spoken to her.

Oh how he wishes he had spoken to her.

When he found out she felt the same, when Lauriam summoned his blade and looked upon him with flared nostrils and gritted teeth and demanded information on his sister’s whereabouts, Ludor didn’t even know where to begin. Sister? Surely not the rose of a woman that he had internalized affections for. But when Lauriam roared out, proud and defiant, that his sister--Strelitzia, like the flower, how fitting, how utterly fitting--wanted desperately to befriend him and was on her way to beg him to join the Dandelions when she was struck down, everything inside of Ludor simultaneously died and came to life.

What could he have meant to her?

He thinks of seeing her run away, tugging at Lauriam’s sleeve, talking animatedly, blooming as Ludor waited for someone else. Waited endlessly.

The snake, Ephemer never did show. He should have followed her, he should have approached her.

Should haves, could haves, and too many moments debating clouded his first life.

And now, Luxord, no, Ludor, definitely Ludor this time, wakes, hand against his chest.

He knows what humanity feels like, he knows what a warm bed feels like and someone has set him inside of one.

Could it be?

Hope is not something he has felt in a very long time and it is overwhelming, but he thinks of a promise he made, what feels like lifetimes, but is surely not so very long ago.

In the next life.

This time, when he fantasizes about golden hair and sea green eyes, the owner dons a pirate’s smile, tucks her thick legs beneath her and declares ‘check’. 

He defeats her, he always does. And defeat is the only thing she handles with any semblance of grace.

She is so different from the first. So very different. He speaks to her more than he speaks to anyone, perhaps. She is not shy, nor is she delicate, nor is she humble. She’s cheeky and sarcastic and cynical, and he is no fool, he knows what he has been told. Nothing beats inside of his chest, he feels nothing.

But there is the faintest glimpse of something he is too smart to believe in, as she brushes past him, as she leans across Demyx’s bed toward him, to make her move with calculating eyes. 

He understands that love at first sight is a child’s fantasy, age and the hell paid for transferring worldines has left him hardened. But undeniably, there is something so attractive about her mind, about her body, about her voice, her laugh, her restlessness, even her speaking mannerisms. 

Indulging the errand thought of lingering in her bed, lips at her jawline, her small frame wrapped in his arms, isn’t wrong, is it? After all, that’s what Kingdom Hearts is supposed to be, a goal to work toward. 

He doesn’t love Rueki, but he could, if something were alive inside of him.

It gets increasingly harder to deny that he feels anything.

“It’s nice to see that Axel has quite literally fucked your brains out.”

He wants to cast Larxene’s insults aside, she is an insolent brat, but Rueki groans and doesn’t even fight her.

Ludor never experienced love, Ludor was a child. But Ludor knew jealousy so when the monster begins to crawl to the surface inside of him, clawing, demanding, seething, he recognizes it immediately.

He’s supposed to feel nothing, and yet, as her time with him dwindles and she opts to spend time with this lover, with this rogue of a man who easily sweeps in and steals her, he feels something breaking.

He doesn’t feel guilty, exposing Axel’s lack of a heart to her. He does feel guilty as he watches her heart break in front of him.

But she’s sent to Castle Oblivion and that should be that. But it isn’t, it never is and time and time again, he watches as she would easily choose misery with her lover over a moment of peace with him.

He may fail at every chance he doesn’t take, but Luxord knows a losing bet when he sees one.

And he will never win her.

“Well, didn’t expect you to be on His radar, that’s for sure.”

Ludor’s eyes fly to the familiar voice of a distinctly cloaked figure at the edge of the room. 

No matter how he tries, he can never get away.

“You gonna tell me who you are, finally?” Xigbar pulls his hood down and meets Ludor with a wolf’s smile and Ludor does not even attempt to hide his irritation.

“Perhaps you might extend to me the same courtesy, Xigbar.” Ludor seethes. Xigbar doesn’t even miss a beat.

“Well, I guess that depends on what you remember. Xigbar replies, stretching his arms out, cracking his wrists as though he has been waiting for this moment a millenia.

“Everything.” From the moment he chose a Union to the moment he lay, at his deathbed, wishing he had chosen to be a Dandelion, when Skuld and Ephemer welcomed him to the alternate worldline, to discovering that he was in an alternate worldline and that it was unstable, to learning to manipulate time--funny that the power had translated into his capabilities as a Nobody-- and sending his friends forward and it not being enough. Were it not for Ephemer’s steely eyed sacrifice and willingness to stay behind, despite Skuld pleading, surely, they’d all have failed.

Surely he’d have failed

Xigbar’s single eye is lit.

“This’ll be easy then.” Xigbar says. “Guess you’d remember me as Luxu.”

Every cell in Ludor’s body goes cold.

Master Luxu was not a Union Leader, but undoubtedly, everyone in Daybreak Town was familiar with the great Master of Masters and his six apprentices. The five Union Leaders and Master Luxu, a cloaked boy, close, Ludor would assume, to his own age. Ludor had scarcely seen Luxu in passing, outside of the castle, always with the other Union Leaders and yet--

Yet, he pieces together impossibly realities. Elrena and Lauriam were Dandelions. Xigbar recruited both of them. Xehanort wound up with the oldest Keyblade of all, the Master of Masters’ Keyblade, which he had only seen as a young boy, in the days of tranquility, when the Foretellers were merely peacekeepers, light gatherers. Could Luxu have been the one to pass this Keyblade to one of Ludor’s scattered friends? Undoubtedly, Ludor thinks, and the very thought sickens him. 

Is Luxu the one who struck down Strelitzia? 

“The him, you’re referring to, then, is the Master of Masters.” Ludor observes. Luxu chuckles, voice bone dry.

“This is gonna be a lot easier than expected. Good. Gives me more time with the others.” Luxu replies, blithely. “Damn shame I still don’t know who you are.”

Ludor grits his teeth, narrows his eyes and keeps his words to himself. His entire life has compromised of hesitations and should haves, he refuses to break his cautious time biding on this rat of a man, this impossible instigator. 

“Doesn’t matter much to me. He named you specifically though. Part of my mission. One of the five.” Luxu explains.

“You sat at Xehanort’s side for decades to gather Union Leaders for your Master once more?” Ludor scoffs.

“Oh man, if I could even begin to explain…” Luxu shakes his head. “I didn’t wait for decades. Whichever one of your friends sent you to another worldline really botched things up. Sprung you forward thousands of years. It’s been so long. Been through so many bodies.”

For the first time, the very first time the cocky facade that Xigbar always donned slips away, and Ludor thinks that tired may genuinely be one of Luxu’s personality traits. The man looks exhausted into his bones. And then another realization strikes. Truly, Luxu has absolutely zero idea of Ludor’s own significance, has no idea that Ludor was the one who sent his friends forward in time. Further than he had hoped, but still, this anonymity is an advantage that he will not take for granted.

“What need was there for such a wait?” Ludor asks, fully expecting Luxu to dodge the question, but to his surprise--something he hasn’t felt in so very long-- Luxu is infinitely more forthcoming than Xigbar ever was. Perhaps out of pure desire for an exchange in information, but Ludor intends to keep these cards very close to his chest, regardless of what Luxu offers.

“Had to summon Kingdom Hearts first.” Luxu replies and though he wants to ask an endless number of questions, Ludor sets his jaw and refuses to make a sound, refuses to prove himself just as green as he was in his first life. “And I had to watch, to wait, to see another Keyblade war through. We were all given missions, that was mine.”

“You were tasked with waiting.” Ludor more says than asks, because it seems utterly ridiculous, but what does he know of the Foretellers?

Nothing, he realizes, and that unnerves him beyond compare.

“And gathering you. All of you.” Luxu nods. “A new group of Union Leaders.”

“I’m uninterested in indulging the plan of another madman, if you don’t mind. Enough of my life has been given toward pragmatism, this is a game I long not to play.” Ludor replies. 

“Damn shame. I’m sure Rueki will miss you.”

Ludor is going to be sick.

“Lust is my namesake. You think I don’t know obvious desire when I see it? Even when you thought you didn’t have a heart, all of you were so damn obvious. No matter what you thought you were concealing...you were all so turned off to each other, like you were existing on different wavelengths altogether. But the thing is, I knew from the very beginning. As if you could hide from me, any of you. You really think I didn’t see that envious glare, every time she so much as looked at Axel? Tough luck, you fell for someone else’s soulmate.” Luxu says.

Ludor’s face burns, he rises from the bed, legs feeling heavy and tired, and yet somehow refreshed in the same, as though he slept for far too long. 

“If you are under the impression that she is the type to come quietly, then--”

“Oh, we both know she doesn’t come quietly. Part of the appeal though, right?” Luxu laughs, and deliberately, Ludor flicks his wrist.

Truly, it is like riding a bike. A perfectly balanced Keyblade with a diamond shaped handle, dice dangling from the Keychain and playing cards as the blade materializes. Wild Card. How fitting.

“Oh ho? A threat? Not really your motiff. Luxord.” Luxu leers.

“Ludor.” The blond corrects. Luxu just cocks his head to the side.

“Still nothing. But a start.” He replies. “Regardless, Rueki’s, well, let’s just say no one is immune to destiny. Each of you are meant to be Union Leaders, each of you were fated for this role, a nice part to play in the grand scheme. You’re Invi’s and Rueki is mine.”

Ludor summoned his blade in a display of power, very aware that taking on a Foreteller was far beyond his realm of capabilities, but the possessive tone Luxu’s voice takes as his tongue curls around Rueki’s name inspires great violence within Ludor. 

He represses, he always represses.

“It’s a good position to be in. Allied with the Master of Master’s. Pretty impossible to lose, if you ask me.”

It’s pragmatic, he tells himself. He cannot cast calculation aside, he will not make a risky move. This has nothing to do with an affinity for pretty girls with green eyes and golden hair.

“What does this...entail?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So if you're not super familiar with KHUX or it wasn't as clear as I hoped, we're going with the Luxord is the Player character theory. That's happening


	4. Vanitas

"The gluttons dig their graves with their own teeth.”  
-James Howell 

Vanitas.

Soft, black hair falls limp against tan skin. Golden eyes flutter open. Something is different. Something is very different. 

“Wakey, wakey Vani.” 

His first reaction is murder. He summons a blade to his hand, jolts up and swings. Reality becomes clearer, his adversary leaps away and Vanitas notices something has changed. The familiar weight of Void Gear no longer fills his hand instead, an odd, spiked blade rests in his palm. He has never seen this sword before, but he has and knows it's name.

Missing Ache. And yes, that's it, that's exactly it. 

His target cackles at him, donning a familiar black trench coat with a low hanging hood. Vanitas sneers at him, feral and furious.

“Come on now, kiddo. Knock that chip off your shoulder. The old coot isn't around to yank your chain anymore. I mean, you're totally off the hook.” Old coot. Fucking Xigbar. And oh…

Realization smacks Vanitas in the face, and he doesn't know whether to feel relief or to mourn for his abuser and father. 

Memories flood his consciousness. He remembers dying by Ventus’ hand --not Sora’s, not Aqua’s, he was made to begin and end with Ventus -- he remembers a wasted life, treated as a puppet, firmly at Xehanort’s beck and call. He remembers pain, like poison in his veins, with every step he takes. Darkness is power, darkness is confidence, darkness is euphoria. And yet, darkness is a cancer, a devourer. Darkness without light is an unending cycle of toxicity, negativity. He chases the power that spawning Unversed creates, and thrives on the high until it leaves him twice as depleted as he was before. And so he allows the chain to continue, desperate for the depraved delight. 

But now, he remembers more. He remembers a Keyblade war, a tiny being called Chirithy. A boy named Brain and a deep desire to be as strong as him, as cunning as him, as intelligent. Brain was certain and steadfast and he longed to consume this effortless perfection until it was his. He would gladly staple himself to Brain's side of it meant so that was his, Vanitas could take.

No, not Vanitas. Ventus.

The other boy’s name climbs ever rung of Vanitas’ spine; an overwhelming sense of pleasure grips him, and Vanitas has to draw a trembling breath to recover.

Fuck! That is what is different!

Vanitas slams a brutal hand to his chest. He doesn't have a clue, can't tell how he knows, but fuck he knows. His heart is no longer pumping dark and dangerous through his body. No. Where the depths of hell once resided, there is now balance, the scales hang perfectly equal. 

Light tastes like a meal after lifetimes of starvation, like the very first breath. Light is clean and exhilarating and leaves him dizzy and hungry. He wants more. Oh, how he wants more. If this is how Ventus feels all the time--

“How ya liking your fresh, new heart, kiddo?” Xigbar asks. A comfortable scowl settles into Vanitas features. 

“You put this thing in me?” Because despite the pleasant, tooth rotting tingles of light, Vanitas may just carve the thing out of his chest, as it still beats if fucking Xigbar gave it to him. 

“Come on, even I'm not capable of that.” Xigbar scoffs. 

“You were one of Ansem’s apprentices, you played with hearts like toys.” Vanitas snarls. 

“You and I have a lot of catching up to do.” Xigbar says. Vanitas recoils, because although Xigbar once would've been called his ally, there is no lost love. If Xehanort is no longer around, then Vanitas has no need to stick around and listen to Xigbar blabber on, and oh can Xigbar talk. “The short version of the story though, is that when Sora struck you down, you were recompleted. Your heart is balanced now. It's not just Xehanort's vacation home anymore.”

“Does that mean Ventus’ heart is the same?” Vanitas asks, in a voice that is supposed to be very level, but sounds hungry instead.

“I dunno. Ven is Ven.” Fuck Xigbar. 

“I’m going to find him.” Vanitas barks, in a tone like the crashing of a hammer, but the flick of the boy’s wrist yields nothing.

Darkness no longer flows freely though him, does this mean dark corridors are off limits? Vanitas’ lips part, but as quickly as his face softens, it hardens back up, his lips pulled over his teeth, his eyes narrowed.

“If you’re trying to summon a portal, good luck with that. That’s the shitty thing about balance. Less power.” Xigbar shrugs.

“I have enough power to put this thing through the one eye you have left.” Vanitas grumbles, a low, monstrous sound. To his utter displeasure, but according to expectations, Xigbar just howls out a laugh. So, Vanitas does what he promises, he charges forward, animalistic and violent, unsatisfied when his blade meets another, a loud metallic clang filling the air.

There is a moment of shock when he realizes Xigbar his holding a Keyblade. There’s a stronger moment of complete nausea when he realizes that it is Xehanort’s Keyblade. 

But his mouth works faster than these repulsive emotions can keep up with.

“Oh does the little man think himself a Keybearer now? It doesn’t count if you had to take it from the old man’s corpse.” Vanitas snarls, lips curling over his teeth.

“Damn, Vani, you’ve got it all backwards! Me? I always do things the honorable way.” Xigbar leers. “I’m only taking back what’s mine.”

There’s a moment where Vanitas wants to bark back a retreat. He’s quick, he’s a powerhouse, he is undeniably cutting. But somehow, Xigbar is quicker. The older man presses a gloved hand to Vanitas’ forehead, and rapidly, the boy unravels.

In his mind’s eye, Vanitas can visualize himself running as a world that radiates ancient magic collapses around him, into a portal that Luxord has created for them to escape through.

Only it’s not quite Luxord and it’s not quite him and his feet can’t move fast enough.

But then he’s freefalling and he crash lands, so far from his friends, so split through time. No longer are Skuld or Lauriam nearby, instead, it’s just him, and he’s on an island, eyelids heavy.

He thinks to himself that this is it, that destruction is inevitable. He’s weak and broken, whatever trick landed them here has drained him, and he’s clutching the edges of his consciousness when the distinct, crooked figure of Xehanort happens upon him.

No, not him.

Ventus. 

Vanitas struggles for breath. Whatever fresh hell Xigbar injected him with, he wants to deny, the way he denied Rueki, the witch girl and her strange powers. But…

But these aren’t his memories, they’re Ventus’ and above all, he trusts Ventus’ mind. Even when Ventus can’t.

“Secrets don’t make friends,Venty Wenty.” He mutters, not for Xigbar, not even for himself, but for those edges of himself that all of the light in the world could not seal off. “Alright, old man, you have my attention, what do you want?” 

He hates the gross smile that curls at the edges of Xigbar’s lips.

He hates even more that he agrees to every last condition.


	5. Elrena

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Straight up couldn't help but post this early. See you guys in two weeks, with "Up In Flames" I'm so excited for what comes next in Rueki's story

“Whatever is begun in anger ends in shame.”  
-Benjamin Franklin 

Elrena. 

Above all, Elrena wants to belong to herself .

Teal eyes flick open, dark lashes fluttering as consciousness returns and she thinks ‘finally’. 

She is no one's heart vessel, she is no one's pawn. She is no one's anything and that feels good. Unabashedly, undeniably good. 

And then, like a bolt of lightning, it hits her. 

A young girl with an aversion to darkness. A blade, shaped like a key that fits her hand, tailor made. A boy with pink hair and cherry blossoms in his voice, his beautiful sister who she barely knew in passing. 

Another boy. 

A boy she chases like lightning chases the thunder. A boy she falls into unconditionally, despite their constant push and pull nature.

How he became a Dandelion, Elrena did not know, at least not at first, 

And then boy proved he could be an ally, that boy who proved he could be a hero when she needed him most. The boy who tasted like seasalt and and loved her so profusely they rolled like a storm. A boy who left the mark of his thumb behind her left ear, a barely there white scar, nearly invisible against her fair skin. 

Beside him, Elrena was electric. And at his side, she stayed, dragging his ass with her every step of the way. ‘let’s help our friends’, ‘let's collect lux’. They playstered themselves to one another, unbreakable, unstoppable. A force of nature.

And then, the glitch. 

Yet another boy pulls them out of time, and Elrena knows that when these boys are done chasing dreams, she will be the one that leads them to the eye of the storm. 

But this strange, new time is more brutal than her own. A new type of monster finds her boy, the one she held so dear, and snatches his heart away from him. Keyblade at hand, he screams as he dies, as the light that once propelled him, leaves his eyes.

And just like that, a spark.

The monsters are relentless but Elrena is all tears and glistening sweat and bloody, blistered hands. She growls, sneers, a Savage. And for her friends, she will be anything, everything. A dream or a nightmare. 

She fights with everything in her, but Lauriam is unconscious and Elrena, she's only got two hands and a fist full of worries. She cannot save Lauriam when his heart too, is snatched from his chest. 

With a broken body and an aching heart, she claws her way, bleeding and convulsing through the frigid streets of a grey town.

“Anyone, please!” But her voice is scratchy and too squeaky, thanks to the pain in her lungs and the throbbing in her heart. 

There's no one, there's nowhere, these new darklings pursue her endlessly, the swing of her blade is futile. No matter what she does, no matter how she tries, there is no stopping the moment that her tattered knees hit the ground and her palms split on the pavement. Whatever power the boy with playing card Keyblade summoned, must be something wicked. Kingdom Hearts must want her dead, and she thinks that is fine, for in death, her heart can return to the rain, but like hell if she's just going to lay down. She can't just lose, she's not going to --

“Be a lot easier if you would just take a breather, kiddo.” And she didn't know the voice then, but in her mind now, she thinks she would know that rat anywhere.

After all, Elrena is not stupid.

“Oh please.” She rolls her eyes, slamming her Keyblade into the ground using every last bit of her strength to hoist herself up. She's not going to make this battle, she knows and yet as she looks up--

That cloak.

“You're one is the Foretellers.” Luxuria, Ludu, something like that, not her own Union Leader but she remembers seeing this cloaked silhouette playing with Ava, chasing after Gula. She was scarcely a child herself last time she'd seen the foretellers playing like actual children, but she remembers and a deep dread sinks right down into her bones. “You knew we’d be here.” She accuses.

“Maybe.” Is his reply, head cocked, shoulders loose and Elrena thinks that bugs her most of all. They were supposed to live, they were all supposed to be able to make it.

She thinks of the rain and the sky begins to mist, ice cold, numbing her sore and overheated body. The clouds hang heavy, even within.

“You ruined everything! We were supposed to live, what sort of half cocked, backstabbing shit did you concoct, we were supposed to--”

“You weren’t supposed to keep your memories.” And with no effort, with an almost teasing flick of his wrist, the Foreteller sets a hand on Erlena’s forehead, and everything goes warm and white. 

She wakes up fighting and clawing remnants of her past on the daily, tearing her way through an impossible haze in her memory. She dons the title ‘Savage Nymph’, she goes through the motions and wonders why she always chases the smell of storms, until there is nothing left for her to chase, and only darkness left to eclipse.

Waking up now is less of a haze but feels equally as impossible.

At least now she belongs to herself.

She’s in a bed that’s not hers, in the tattered scraps of her trench coat, still able to taste the metallic tang of that stupid slut’s redirected lightning. Where an absolute waste like Rueki could learn a skill like that, Larxene--no, Elrena-- has no idea, but the single most satisfying thing in this moment would be to track the brat down, grab her by her pretty blonde hair and press thousands of volts into her. A fun little game to see what the lucky little bitch is truly capable of redirecting. She’s probably soft by now, cozied up with Axel, as if she deserves it, as if she has suffered enough to earn reprieve. 

The mark behind Elrena’s ear screams, as it always does, aching with no sign of relief in sight. She flicks her wrists, calls Foudre to her hands and blanches when something else appears in her palm. Something heavier than she’s used to but something just right.

A mid range, golden blade with a diamond shaped handle wrapped in smooth, black leather. Foudre itself pierces from the very edge of the rod, acting as the blades, but the entire thing crackles, circulating with unused lightning. Every ounce of the sword is deadly, buzzing with raw, dripping sadism. She won’t even have to pierce stupid little Rueki all the way through, just one touch, just one little zap and--

Eye of the Storm. That’s what it’s called, she recalls. And the memories are almost too much, the way they tighten like a fist around her throat.

She thinks of the boy, of his pretty, pretty eyes and casts her Keyblade aside, smashing the heels of her hands into her once again, teal eyes.

If she could get his stupid voice and his stupid laughter out of her head, she’d be fine, she wouldn’t have to tear this room to shreds, she wouldn’t have to cut a sparkly ring off of Rueki’s little finger, she wouldn’t have to--

“You know if you’re gonna throw a tantrum, I can wait.”

The voice jolts an immediate reaction from Elrena, who leaps to her feet, calls her Keyblade back and sails forward, narrowly missing impaling Xigbar’s stupid, smarmy, unhooded face. Elrena is quick, but so is the resident rat bastard, who catches the rod of her blade in his hand.

“And if you don’t shut up, I can carve out that other eye, m’kay?” Elrena hums, pressing her blade down harder, with all of her might, until the lithe, sinewy muscles in her arms are strained and shaking and all she is, is gritted teeth and ground electricity.

“Be a lot easier if you would just take a breather, kiddo.” Xigbar teases, and something seems to fall right into place. A familiarity that Elrena registers as she struggles to press her blade further. Xigbar doesn’t flinch, instead, he just looks down at her, a teasing glint in his visible eyes as he pushes her sword away by the tip, undamaged by the crackling lightning around the blade.

She should be able to make a dent, should be able to press just a little more and send him to the ground. He shouldn’t have used those exact words.

His free hand shouldn’t be resting on Xehanort’s Keyblade.

“You’re that same fucking bastard!” She howls, snatching her Keyblade back only to bring it down mercilessly, endlessly, in a flurry of constant strikes, an eruption of utter hatred. A savage cry storms from her lips, an assasination in its own right as she strives to hail blow after blow upon him. Not one takes Xigbar off guard. Not one breaks his composure. Every doubt is wiped from her mind. He is not human. “You’re one of the Master of Master’s little toys.” The very same one who found her, running on empty in those frigid streets.

“You can call me Luxu.” Xigbar laughs, an utterly slimy noise that has her skin crawling.

“You can go fuck yourself.” She seethes, jerking away, trying to find something, anything perfect in the room that she can tarnish. She settles for sending her blade into a vase but is still unsatisfied as she watches glass shatter and flowers crash to the ground. “Don’t fucking touch me, don’t fucking look for me again. I’m so done with you stupid old bastards playing like you’re bigger than you are. I’m not here to be a Union Leader, I’m not here to make amends. Get fucked and get the hell away from me!”

Xigbar or Luxu or whoever the fuck he is looks at her the way someone might regard a child throwing a tantrum.

This pisses her off impossibly more, so she takes one look at a lamp beside Luxu and kicks it to the ground. 

“Hell, talk about a hissy fit.” Xigbar rolls his eye.

“Fuck you.” She snaps. “Whatever the fuck you gathered me up and decided to creep on me while I slept for, you can count me out. Like hell am I giving a second more of my life to you or to anyone else and your psychotic power lust.”

Silence crackles in the air, heavy and pregnant. Xigbar swipes a gloved hand through his ponytail, careworn, spent, obviously uninterested in placating and Elrena thinks finally, something. Finally screaming and thrashing and clawing has gotten her so far removed that nothing can touch her. 

She doesn’t know an ace in the hole when she sees one.

“Are you done?” He asks.

“No, but you are.” She snaps. Xigbar, no, Luxu, this is quite unlike Xigbar, sighs.

“Play tough all you want, I know you’re coming with me, Elrena.” He insists. She snorts, turns on her heel and stomps toward the door. She even wraps one, lithe, gloved hand around the knob and then--

“We’ve got him, Elrena. He’s already on our side.”

Her mouth goes bone dry, her blade clatters to the ground.

And so the storm chases.


End file.
